You Were My Home
by nebulia
Summary: My attempt at making a plausible Enjolras has a sister thing. What Danielle Enjolras does after Enjolras' death. Angsty. WIP. Will never be finished, as it is my CRAPPIEST story EVER...
1. Prologue: In Which I Travel To Paris

A/N: Might be absolutely awful. Idea came from LMFFI and the story "Beyond the Barricade." And, from right after I saw LM, I asked my mother, "What would they do with the bodies? Would they just bury them in an empty field, or would they leave them to rot out where they died?" My mother said both were plausible. So I'm saying, because at that time people were still a little savage (for further detail, see Pirates of the Carribbean. Even though it happened around 30-40 yrs. Before LM, the world was still a lot alike.), they left them to rot until they smelled thoroughly terrible, an then they buried them. Joly would have a fit.  This story is about Enjolras' younger sister, Danielle.  The title came from The Scarlet Pimpernel.

Disclaimer: Own nothing, OK? You know the story: Flames will be used to burn the witch in Monty Python.

You are My Home

Oh, God. Etienne, why'd you go to Paris in the first place? I stare at the letter from Ma'am Hucheloup, a woman who I don't know, who has written letters to all of my brother's friends' families. I will be the only one to go. 

            And so I do. I find my plainest clothes, and pack them. I pack all my money, to live on. I pack Etienne's old rag-doll, a thing made by our nurse. When I was born, he gave it to me. Nana always said to me, "He said, 'A seven-year-old is too old to have a toy.'" I would laugh, and laugh, and laugh. 

            And he was twelve, and I five when we saw Father beat a servant to death. Etienne was never the same. He defended the servants, refused to let Father hurt them, even he himself would be beaten instead. And seven years later, when he went away to school, he never came back. 

            Our town is only half a day's trip by carriage to Paris, and the burial will not be for a week. The National Guard refuse to clean up the streets destroyed by the battles until all of Paris knows what has happened. Damn them. Maman would murder me for saying that.  I smile at the thought. Etienne would've told me to sneak out. And so I leave her a letter, and do. I take the early carriage to Paris, and get there before noon.

            I only visited my brother once, but I remember where his flat was. I remember his friends, when I followed him to his meetings, and the one who tried to flirt with me. When I hit him, another asked, "That glare—is it hereditary, or did Enjolras teach it to you?"  At the time, I had been angry, but now, it's funny. 

            But first, I pull out the letter. _Corinthe_. The place means death. It's where I lost my other half, my only friend other than servants, my favorite brother. And my only one, but that's different. And he's still there. Dead. Did you even make a difference, Etienne? What did you do? What did you die for? Yourself? Or was it really this terrible squalor I see here?  How should I feel, Etienne? Would you rather have me throw myself off a cliff? Did you know what this would do to me, Etienne? Or did you just get egocentric for a moment, and forget I would still be here? 

            I stare at the letter again. _Corinthe._ I stop in a shop, and ask for directions. 

            And I go there.

            Oh, God.


	2. In Which My Brother Etienne is Dead

A/N: I like this chapter more than the first one. This story might turn out OK. 

P.S. There is NO Danielle/Musichetta slash. NONE. They're just incredibly grief-stricken and need someone to hold on to. And also: my Ma'am Hucheloup is a very level-headed woman; she just doesn't want to leave her home. I don't remember what happened to her in the book, but I really don't care.Capish? Capish.

Bodies. In a pile. Everywhere. And silence. Just the sound of a woman sobbing over a body. It smells terrible, rotten, metallic blood-stench, the smell of death and tears and fear. You can smell the fear-sweat, even now, four days after. 

And I see no golden-haired boy, no blue-eyed brother. In fact, I see no light-haired man at all, save for a boy not much older than me, thrown over the barricade as though he had been shot on the other side and tossed over here after the battle.

I wade through the bodies, trying not to retch at the smell, and reach the fair-haired one. It's one of Etienne's friends, the poet. He was so nice. Oh, what did they call him?

Jehan. That's it. They called him Jehan. His eyes are open and unseeing, his face pale, devoid of blood. And it dawns on me that they're dead. They're all dead. Really and truly dead.

I wish I was like my brother, and could not cry. But I am me, and I am emotional. So the tears fall, sliding down my face onto Jehan's bloody waistcoat. I kiss the boy's forehead, and stare at his pocket. In it is a small piece of paper.

Jean Prouvaire 

_"Jehan"_

_Born 10 October 1811_

_Died 5-6 June 1832_

_"I lived._

_I died._

_Who is to know which is more important?"_

Obviously, it is what is to go on his gravestone, or so he hopes. I remember to get every one of these men a gravestone. I certainly have the money. 

"Were you his mistress?"

I jump. It's the woman who had been sobbing. Her voice is still teary, her dark hair mussed. I turn to her and she starts and blushes.

"Oh, Ma'moiselle Enjolras. I'm sorry—"

"How did you know it was me?"

She laughs slightly, but it's a shaky laugh. I'm surprised she even can laugh. "Well, for starters, you look just like him." Then she holds out a hand. "Musichetta Lamont."

"Danielle Enjolras. Enchanté, Musichetta. Why are you here?"

Her face clouds. "Laurent. Laurent Joly. She points to a frail body over by the shop. I was his mistress—no. I was his fiancée. We were going to get married." She holds up her left ring finger. A plain band shines on it. "But then—he had to go and get himself killed—" She bursts into tears again, and I hug her. I don't even know her, but we have a bond. We lost our closest friends, and whether they be lover or brother, that's what they really are. Friends. 

She murmurs words like "Damn him" and "Enjolras" and "true love" and "oh, Laurent, you idiot!" and other things I can't quite catch, and it's not long before I'm sobbing too, mourning my brother and the poet and her Joly and all those people who never lived to get married or graduate from college or anything. 

Finally she steps away. "I'm sorry. It's just—you know."

I nod. "I know." 

And then an old woman steps out. She walks with a cane, and says, "Danielle Enjolras?"

I nod. 

"I'm Ma'am Hucheloup. I sent you the letter about your brother."

"Where is he?"

"He's upstairs. I think you should see him."

We walk upstairs, leaving Musichetta down to mourn. And he's there, standing against a wall.

Standing? Is he alive? He's covered in bloodstains.

I walk forward, and then I see the holes in his body. Eight of them. Oh, God. No, he's dead. He can't be dead! I won't let him!

"Etienne?"

Ma'am Hucheloup walks forward, and with a surprisingly strong hand grabs my shoulder. "Come, Danielle. This isn't good for you."

I push her hand off my shoulder and continue till I'm standing in front of him, looking into his lifeless eyes, now a dull blue-gray from death. 

I grab his shoulder.

Half my mind is saying, _Let him go, Dani. You know he's dead. He died four days ago,_ but more of it tells me, _He's your ageless brother. He's not dead. Of course not, he was going to live forever, remember?_

I shake the shoulder. "Etienne? Etienne? Wake up! Stop joking with me!" I grab the other shoulder and shake them both, crazily. "Etienne! STOP PLAYING! Wake up! Wake up…."

I don't know how long I stand there, yelling at him, but the sadness and the early trip tires me, and I slide to the ground, sobbing more than Musichetta was.

My brother…my brother…he's dead.

Dead.


	3. In Which a Decision is Made

A/N: After this final Prologue chapter, they'll get longer. I promise. 

I think I must've fallen asleep, because now it's misting a light rain from the sky and it's nearly dark. The silence is unbearable. I pick up my pack and turn to where my brother is standing. And it hits me like a shock all over again: he's dead. But now there's a white sheet over his body, and the body of the man at his feet. I murmur a prayer, and promise to return. Then I walk downstairs. Ma'am Hucheloup is making dinner, and asks me if I want to join her. I tell her no thank you and start to leave, when I hear quiet crying from the lower level.

At first I think it's just Musichetta again, so I head down the steps. But it's a tiny gamine, maybe fourteen or so.  She sobs over the body of a boy even younger than she.

_So this is why you fought, 'Tienne?_ I ask silently. _So boys like him would be shot to death?_

I know what he'd tell me, though. He gave them a choice, no matter what. He said they wouldn't have to fight if they didn't want to; he told me that much when I visited him last year. That boy chose to fight. But he didn't choose to get shot, did he? And leave a sobbing girl behind? 

"Ma'moiselle?" I jump. It's the girl, standing in front of me. "Did you need something?" Her face is stained with tears, her large gray eyes glassy. Her face is dirty, bruised, and hollow, and her body is skinny. Rough auburn hair falls halfway down her back, dirty and pulled back. 

"Oh, no…I just—I heard you crying, and I—er—hoped you were all right," I finish lamely, and she gives me a slightly bemused look, as if she would smile if she could. 

"Was that—was he your—"

"He was my brother," the girl says. "He was so kind, gettin' me 'n 'Ponine—that's my sister--tickets to the opera or a loaf of bread if 'e could spare it. 'E ignored us half the time, too, but that was all right. What he did was enough. And now 'Ponine's dead too—I saw her out there I did! And so it's just me 'n Papa, and 'e's as evil as the Devil 'imself…I don't know where to go now, and 'e'll hit me when 'e finds out I've been here." She starts to cry again, slowly crumpling to the ground where she remains in a tight ball, burying her face in her dirty, hole-filled skirt. 

I take her hand, and pull her from the ground. "Don't worry. I lost my brother, too, and he had a place over by the university, and you and I can stay there." The words come out of my mouth before I realize it, but then I find out the decision had been made a long time ago. I'm not going back home. Not ever. 

"What's your name?" she asks me, wiping her eyes. "Mine's Azelma."

"I'm Danielle," I say.  "It's nice to meet you, Azelma."

We take dinner at Corinthe the wine-shop, and then we head to Etienne's flat. Home. We head home.


	4. Un: Blood, Sweat, and Tears

December 1820 

_Two children sit in a large library-like room. One looks to be about five, and is sounding out words quietly from a large book. The other looks around twelve, and is reading his own book, good-naturedly correcting some of the girl's mispronouncings_ (A/N: Which isn't actually a word but mispronouncing is one so it's close enough)_. They are obviously sister and brother, both with gold hair and serious blue eyes. _

_ Suddenly the girl looks up, and says, "'Tienne?"_

_ He smiles at her, and says, "Yes, Dani?"_

_ "Well, you gave me this book, about the Na-pole-onic wars, and I've been reading it, but, well, what's a war?"_

_ The boy bursts into laughter, and then dodges the girl's slap. He looks over at her, still grinning, and says, "Dani, what page are you on?"_

_ She looks for the number. "Twelve."_

_ He attempts not to laugh some more, and instead snorts. "If you had told me that, it might be a lot easier to understand, Dani."_

_ The girl glares at him, and then says, "But what is it?"_

_ He sighs, serious again. "A war is blood, sweat, and tears."_

_ "But isn't that life?"_

_ The two stand up quickly, startled. The speaker is a dark-haired boy, about with wire-rimmed glasses._

_ The boy gets to him first, and the two hug. "Basile! How goes it, mon ami?"_

_ The dark-haired boy smiles, and pushes his glasses up on his face, and says, "I'm quite well, Etienne. You appear well."_

_ "I'm all right. I'm not sure Danielle is, though." The two look at her and laugh. She's glaring at them, her arms folded over her chest. She wants attention, obviously._

_ Basile gets down on one knee, so he's eye level with her, and says, "Bonsoir, Danielle. How are you, cherie?" _

_ She grins, and throws her arms around him. "Basile! You're here!" _

_ Eventually, the three head over to the chairs where Danielle and Etienne had been sitting a moment before. And Etienne remarks, "I don't know how you got in here without Marthe noticing."_

_ Danielle snickers, and _Basile_ rolls his eyes. "Help from my father, and some from Marcelin and Athena, who arrived at the same time I did."_

_ Danielle grins. "Your father helped you?"_

_ "Sadly, yes. Only he didn't know he was doing it. However, Marcelin did." _

_ Etienne snorts. "Only because Marcelin wants Marthe for himself."_

_ "And why did Athena do it?" Danielle asks_

_ "Because, she hates Marthe with a vengeance. And she thinks she's about to die anyway," Basile says. _

_ The siblings look at him, startled, and said in unison, "WHAT?"_

_ "She suffers from strange bruises on her legs, and severe dizziness. No one's sure why." _

_ "That's it?" Etienne asked._

_ "Well—" Basile wasn't sure how to put it. "She's weaker than she used to be. She can't run as far, or as fast—but she can still beat Marcelin, and that's saying something."_

_ "Will she—"_

_ "Basile!"_

_ Basile closes his eyes. "Oh, merde."_

_ Danielle giggles; Etienne burrows his face in his hands. They turn towards the door. Marthe, Danielle and Etienne's older sister, thirteen or so, was rushing forward, green eyes excited, skirts in hand. Marcelin came behind him, his twin sister Athena on his arm. The two looked more alike than Etienne and Danielle, plain, with dark hair, and large dark eyes as well. Marcelin gave the trio a resigned look, and then shrugs. "Sorry, Basile. I tried."_

_ Marthe drags Basile off, Marcelin and Athena sit down, and the three talked until Basile got away. Danielle, however, was silent, only half-listening to the conversation, thinking about Basile's remark about war. _

But isn't that life?

_Her five-year-old brain could not grasp the thought. Life, yes, was blood, sweat, and tears, but war—if war was that, then war was a fight—but with dangerous weapons. And then war would be life. But you don't call life war, do you? Or war life?_

_ The evening passed pleasantly, a Christmas gathering for three families. And it's not until the party is over that Danielle drags her brother back into the library. _

_ "I don't get it. If war is blood, sweat, and tears, and life is blood, sweat, and tears, then wouldn't war be life?"_

_ Etienne sighs. "War is more that those three things, it's fighting, and guns, and swords, and battles, and tactics, and logistics, and a lot of other things, but it's mostly blood, sweat, and tears. But then everything is."_

_ Suddenly his whole form stiffens, and he stares rigidly at the fireplace as he thinks for a moment. Then he says, "Someday I'll fight the war to end all wars, Dani. And then there'll be less to cry about." He hugs himself fiercely._

_ Danielle was confused. "But if you fight a war to end all wars, 'Tienne, then wouldn't that be fighting in a war? And so you would be fighting a war, not ending them?"_

_ Etienne stares at her. "You're a smart girl, Dani. Not all wars are physical. And, even if it is, isn't it better to fight one war and never have another than fight all the hundreds that might happen in the future?" He slumps again, suddenly, thought hitting him. It's almost as if his sister isn't sitting in the chair across from him. He stares into the fire, a hopeless look coming into his eyes. He hugs himself again, and murmurs, "But what if you lose, 'Tienne? What then?"_

August 1832 

I jerk awake, the memory hitting me like a ton of bricks. That dream—that question. This is the _What then?_ isn't it? It's been two months, and the dreams still come, nightmares. And I am the only one still alive. 

Athena—dead of whatever plagued her in February 1821.

Marthe: Died in childbirth, 1828.

Marcelin: Dead at Etienne's feet.

Basile: Dead from three bayonet wounds in his chest.

And Etienne himself: Dead from eight bullet wounds, found pinned against a wall.

Three of them, dead from Etienne's _war to end all wars_. Leaving blood, sweat, and tears behind. 

Blood, sweat, and tears isn't a war. It's what a war leaves behind.

It's interesting. Marthe died almost eight years after Athena's death. Then four years later, Marcelin, Basile, and Etienne die. Does that mean I'll die in two?


	5. Deux: The Letter

A/N: Yes, dearies, I updated. Aren't you stunned? Finally, I'm getting into the plot, but after I wrote it, I realized it sounded like 'The Saga of Christian Caron,' in when Chantal and Enjolras' mom comes and looks for Chantal. But then I decided it wasn't that must like it, just sort of like it. And this chapter isn't all that great, but it's the best I could throw out, so get over it.

It's sometime later that I finally get out of bed. I walk over to the door, and only hear soft breathing from Azelma sleeping on the sofa. I light a lamp, and then I hear the bells of Notre Dame chime.

_One_……_Two_……_Three_……_Four._

Four o'clock, and I don't think I can go back to sleep. I stand in front of the mirror instead, and comb out my tangled hair.

Despite the fact Enjolras and I share the same features, I am not as beautiful as he was handsome. I mean, I suppose I'm decent-looking, but his looks on me are too angular, too harsh. The long, straight nose, mine marred with a bump from when I fell out of a tree at ten and broke my nose, splits my face in two, where his simply was pretty and aristocratic. My eyes are icy, especially now. My mouth is small, like his was, and the only thing of any beauty to me is my hair, still as golden and as loosely curly as it was when I was five. I pull it back with a plain cord, and slip outside, drawing water so I can bathe.

In those two months since that dreadful day, my life has changed immensely. At first, it turn a turn like the Gospels, for a priest asked for the bodies of the men at the Rue de Chanvrerie, and buried them in a potter's field he owned. I took all the money I had, and the money that I had stolen from my parents, and bought them plain gravestones. The priest, I discovered, was one of the men's brothers, who also had been a priest. I visit their private cemetery often, as sometimes seeing their graves is the only thing that gives me peace.

I stay in Etienne's flat now, along with Azelma. The monks at Notre Dame also give me peace, their chants putting me to sleep many nights. The chimes never bother me, and the huge church looming nearby reminds me of a guardian angel, watching over this near-Godforsaken city.

And I got some work.

It took me quite a while, as while I can sew, embroidery isn't really needed here as much as plain seamstresses, and going to the University would be impossible, unless I disguised myself as a boy. But, eventually, I got a job at a bookshop, stacking books and working at the counter. Azelma, meanwhile, took a job at a cheap, almost factory-like seamstress's, and does do some seamstress work, although more of it is fetch-and-carry.

By the time I finish bathing and dressing, it is nearly five, and Azelma wakes up with the five o'clock chimes ringing. I am sitting at the small table, still covered with Etienne's papers, because I haven't had the heart to clean it off.

Azelma crawls off the couch, and looks at me. "Nightmare," I explain. _But a memory is more like it…_

She smiles, and grins rather ruefully. "I allas wake up at five," she says, referring to the chimes. "The bells are louder, I think."

"Do you ever go back to sleep?" I ask. She usually gets home quite late, and says the work is hard.

"Oh, yes, most of the time," she says, "but today I don't really see the point, since you're up and dressed already."

I clear off a spot on the table and find a blank sheet of paper and a pen. "I'm going to write a letter to my mother."

Azelma jumps. "Why the hell would you want to do that?"

I don't wince at her use of language like I did the first month we lived in Etienne's flat. "Because I saw my father yesterday, wandering the streets of Paris, stopping in cafes an bookshops and even millineries to see if I'm there."

She stares at me, horrified. "'E didn't see you, did 'e?"

I shake my head. "I saw him come in, and borrowed Laurent's cape to make myself look anonymous." Laurent is the owner of the bookshop I work at, a kindly old man who hired me out of pity more than anything, but keeps the other worker's hands off me and treats me and Azelma like his own children, who died of cholera.

She thinks for a moment, chewing on her lip, and then says, "Whasyer father look like?"

I raise my eyebrows at her. "Why do you want to know?"

"So's I can keep an eye out for 'im."

I stare into nowhere, my father's face coming into view, and say, "Well, he looks a lot like Etienne and I, blonde hair, straight, and he keeps it long. Blue eyes, somewhat small, and, if he's drunk, red-rimmed. Of course," I say, turning to her, "he'd only get drunk on the finest wine and brandy. Oh, no, no absinthe or whiskey for him. Not even that Russian drink, vodka."

Azelma laughs, a little bitterly. I know she's tasted alcohol before; she's told me of it. But I also know for a fact she finds it foul, as, when I found a bottle of cheap wine in the cupboard, she refused to have a glass, saying something on how it was vile, disgusting, and then saying a few words which would singe a sailor's ears. I, meanwhile, have on every evening after work, simply because I have since childhood.

I continue with my description. "Rather tall, nearly as tall as the doorframe." I point to the doorframe between the small bedroom and the great room, the room we're in now. "Broad shoulders, but rather lean. I suppose he'd be handsome if he didn't look as evil as he does. I don't think I've ever seen him smile unless he was beating a domestic—a servant," I correct hurriedly. Azelma can (surprisingly) read and write, but there are a few words she doesn't know.

She seems horrified, which shocks me. What have I said? Then she says, "You _watched_ him beat 'em?"

I swallow back tears, and say bitterly, "Well, Maman wouldn't allow it any other way. They were mostly children, and if we did something wrong, some maid's daughter or son would be dragged into a room, and beaten until unconscious. And all five of us had to watch. 'Twas like they were whipping children for us, and we were young queens and a king." I swallow another sob at the thought of Etienne, although I've thought of little else for two months. "Marthe, Camille, and Annette didn't mind. They liked their nice clothes, their rouge, their admiring throngs of boys. Marthe couldn't believe it when Basile—Basile Combeferre, a friend of my brother's, turned her down. She loved him, I think, and married some old fool who was a friend of Pére's." Azelma's eyebrows raise at my use of the formal name for father, not the usual 'papa'. "No, my sisters liked the life of a rich person, liked lording over a household. But Marthe—she went and got married, and then died in childbirth. The baby lived, though, and Marthe's husband sent her to live with Camille. She was the nicest of my sisters, I suppose." I shake my head, and then turn to my letter.

_Cher Maman,_

_ Please do not fret over me, as I am safe here in Paris. I have a job, a few friends, and a place to live. I do not wish to return home. Give my best regards to Camille and Annette for me, and tell little Ange that Aunt Danielle loves her. Also, place some flowers on Marthe's grave for me. Thank you for doing so. I love you. Don't look for me. I'll be fine. Oh, and by the way, Etienne was buried two months ago. He has a gravestone. I'm sorry you couldn't come to the burial. _

_Your Daughter,_

_Danielle Enjolras_

I stare at the letter. It's good enough. It's hard to mention Etienne so casually, but they are like that. "Did you hear from Etienne recently?" "Oh, yes, he sent a letter telling us he would never write again, and cursed us." "Why should it matter, Maman? Haven't you already disowned him?" "Yes, but it's good to know he's alive so we don't have a rotting body dumped on us full of knife wounds or something." After that conversation, I went with my old nurse last year to Paris to visit him. How he laughed when I told him that conversation!

I smile at the memory. Etienne called out parents "The old fools," or worse.

"Danielle?" I jump. Azelma stands in front of me, looking a little worried. "Are you all right?"

I smile at her. "Yes, 'Zelma, I'm fine." I find a book on the table, an old picture book of mine, and another sheet of paper. It's only about five-thirty, and the markets and post office don't open until six at least, so we have some time. "Reading lessons."

Azelma rolls her eyes at me. She can read, but not all that well, since she was seven when her family took her and her sister out of school, or so she's told me. However, she pulls up a chair next to me, and we work for a half hour, until Azelma has to leave for her work, and I go to the post office. We agree to meet at Ma'am Hucheloup's after work to help her repair the wine-shop some.

And as I walk to the post office, I'm almost happy, really happy, for the first time in a long time.

Life has almost taken an agreeable turn for me.


End file.
